


There's 104 Days of Summer Vacation

by disoriented_writing



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Love Confession, M/M, Summer, beach, everyone else is there too just very vaguely and not mentioned by name at all, just a lil tho, last week before college, sand the ocean and stars, theres a little angst ngl, this is soft tbh, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disoriented_writing/pseuds/disoriented_writing
Summary: There’s something ephemeral about summer days.





	There's 104 Days of Summer Vacation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kumatt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumatt/gifts).



> prompt: last summer break before college == last chance to confess your love  
> This is for my lovely friend Kumatt! If it isn't obvious, because it's VERY VAGUE SORRY, this is from Lance's point of view. I hope you enjoy it babe!

There’s something ephemeral about summer days. Something sweet and too-bright and _hot_ , definitely hot, and sweaty, too — sticky ice cream slipping down your forearms and backs splayed out over hardwood floors under a fan, tennis-shoe bottoms slapping on concrete and riding skateboards to sandy beaches and chilled waters.

Black hair tied up in a bun on the back of a head in front of you, pale skin burned just this shade of pink on the shoulders. Beach trunks riding high on his thighs from the push and pull of pedaling on his bicycle. 

He flashes you a glance, and then a grin, wide and toothy and just this side of exasperated.

“Watch the _road_ , idiot,” he calls over the wind. You laugh into it, full and bright and you catch a bug in your teeth but it’s _worth it._

And you get to the beach, and the water is freezing — it always is, no matter what time of year — and the sand is blistering between your toes when you kick off your sandals, but it's _worth it_ , it is, you promise.

Because the boy with black hair and a wild smile is running toward the ocean with his arms opened wide. He always does this, you think — greets this ageless deity with some sort of wild mirth and challenging gaze.

He throws you one over his shoulder, and there's some sparkle of a dare in them, and his gait changes.

A race. 

So you run after him, your head tilted down, sprinting against the wind. Your legs are longer, just a little bit — he's still taller, but not as lithe. He has the head start, but you have determination, and it's all you need.

You hit the water the same time he does, both diving toward the waves and holding back your shrieks at the frigidity. 

"I win!" You call, knowing it's not true. He laughs, and splashes you with water, and it tastes like salt and sand and delight.

"No you don't!" He counters, and you smile, and splash him right back.

It devolves into a war, this does - it always does, when it's the two of you and the open ocean, but you love it. You do. 

You love him, too, but you won’t say it. You won’t. It’s the week before summer ends, and college begins, and you’ll be too busy with school and distance to have any chance of love with this wild and fierce boy.

You wish you would. You wish your heart was made of courage and your soul was made of something stronger than this, because his mouth glitters prettily with the ocean water, and his teeth shine with the sunlight, and his skin may be pink with burn but it’s pink with laughter, too. 

He’s beautiful, this black-haired boy. Earnest and perfect.

And if you were a stronger man, you’d tell him.

So you splash water at his face until your arms are tired and your friends are calling to the two of you, because it’s lunchtime — time for sticky hands and picking sand out of your teeth. Time to make a game out of who can eat the fastest. Time to try not to choke on your pizza and salad, because your friends have worked hard to make it, and they would like you to savor it.

Time to try not to choke on your pizza and salad, because you won’t win ‘cause you can’t eat if you’re choking, can you?

You eat and your friends make you stay out of the water for forty-five minutes (“if you don’t you’ll cramp and drown to death so _sit back down_ ”) even though you’re _pretty sure_ that’s a myth, but you really can’t argue with their _just in case_ logic, so. You sit and you wait impatiently until the moment you and the boy you love can dive back into the water and play like childish fools.

He swims, this boy does — you taught him, just a year ago, until his flailing hands calmed into sturdy strokes. Now he’s a fish in the ocean, just like you, just like you.

You’re proud of him. Of course you are — but you only show it by challenging him to another competition, to see who can swim the best and the fastest.

You lose, of course you do, because he’s a high-achiever and learns quickly. If anyone asks, you let him win. Really, you’re just tired from racing and fighting him in the water.

His smile is brilliant and prideful and beautiful. Losing is worth it, for this. 

When the day is done and the sun is setting on the horizon, you all ride back home. The two of you, farthest away from the ocean where you and your friends gather, ride on the backroads toward the streets where you live.

And he turns to you, his wild eyes dark in the dim light of the street lamps and the fading sunlight. “Do you wanna come over? Mom’s making mac, tonight.”

You smile, wide and toothy, and kick the sidewalk to propel yourself back to his side on your skateboard. “I wouldn’t miss your mom’s mac and cheese for the _world_ , man.”

So you come with him to his house, and his mother is intimidating and frightening but lovely and earnest and kind just like he is, perfect just like he is, and she feeds you macaroni and cheese (it’s divine, it really is — not as good as your abuela’s, but almost) until your stomach is bursting, and doesn’t mind the two of you climbing onto the roof to look at the stars. 

The light pollution obscures the most of them, and the air feels too quiet between the two of you, but you know he likes the quiet and the peace and you like him, you love him, and you want him to be happy. 

When you glance at him, at his profile under the light of the moon and the lamps across the street, he’s smiling. His eyes are trained on the sky above you, flickering from place to place, and he’s squinting to see the Milky Way, but it just crinkles the skin around his eyebrows (and you want to kiss it, the crow’s feet, you want to thank it for being so beautiful and endearing.

(You want to kiss him, the night air off his lips, and thank him for being here with you. Alive with you.)

It’s the last week of summer before college. 

If you were a stronger man, you wouldn’t have fallen for him at all, would you?

So you turn on your side toward him, and the movement makes him look at you curiously. The roof tile digs into your ribcage unforgivingly, but it’s worth it. It is.

“I love you,” you tell him, straight-forward and firm and it’s still soft, under the moonlight. Under the moonlight, his smile looks ethereal, and his eyes are glimmering, wild and dark as they are.

And his hand is warm, as it weaves his fingers through yours. 

“I love you, too,” he says, just as firm, just as soft.

And his mouth tastes like ocean brine and pizza sauce, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect. Your hands are sticky with ice cream and your heart is full of humid summer air and the heat is breaking, you swear it is, even the moon above you can feel the condensation on the grass.

He’s perfect, with his black hair sweaty and gritty with salt and sand, splayed out across the roof tiles, and his fingertips are scarred and rough with callouses, but they’re so gentle against your jaw you wonder if you’re imagining it all. 

Your heart fills to bursting, and you may only have this moment for as long as it takes for the sun to rise again, but it’s _w_ _orth it, it is — every second of it_.


End file.
